


I Don't Make Promises I Can't Break

by LovelyPoet



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-01
Updated: 2003-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-09 10:44:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4345499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyPoet/pseuds/LovelyPoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin's never falling in love again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Make Promises I Can't Break

_Like a sweet magnolia tree_

_my love blossomed tenderly_

***

Justin loves his house. He resisted buying it for as long as he could—until all of his friends refused him the use of their guesthouses and guestrooms and couches. After two weeks living off room service in a hotel suite reserved even when he wasn't in town, it became clear that living out of a suitcase for all his time in LA would, in the long run, probably be harder on his bank account than a ridiculously huge mortgage. Between promotional obligations and bickering over decor with Trace and his mother—who overruled his request for wall to wall carpeting and regret it every time he complains about his cold feet—it took months to make it feel like something more than a shell.

It's a year since he left the other house and six months since he moved into the new one and even though he feels settled, he's not completely moved in. It's something more than a shell, but it's not home yet. There are plots of land, circles and strips of dark soil seeded, planted and waiting to bloom. He feels like he's waiting, too.

He's not completely moved out either. Britney calls every few weeks when he's home because she's found something that's his, not hers, in a closet or cupboard or on her last visit to her Louisiana House. It's almost the same every time. Instead of saying hello, she'll say, "Sorry, to bug you but I was going through some things and I don't want you to think I'm not giving you back your stuff. After all, we are still friends."

They are still friends. They weren't at first, when they were both bitter and trying to remember how to be one and not one-half. They are friends who get along best with each other's voice mail.

"Just throw it out," he says. "Whatever it is, I haven't missed it in a year." It never works that way because it's never just an old t-shirt or perfectly worn pair of jeans. That would be too easy, so much easier than driving the short distance to her gates. This way is harder but he does it anyway, waits in his car, idling in the drive until she buzzes him in. He waits because she doesn't use the last five digits of his social security number anymore. She stands at the door with whatever it was she called about dangling from her finger in a shopping bag.

She invites him in for lemonade or coffee or a beer depending on the time. He never accepts, except for when he does. Eventually he will take the bag from her finger to his and leave.

He spends the next few days waiting for a blurry picture to appear in the checkout line with headlines about reunions and clandestine meetings. A few weeks after that, she'll call again about a jacket that got mixed in with hers in cold storage, the spare key to his mom's Harley or a picture she found one of her album that was really his. And he will go and maybe accept a can of Coke—she never liked Pepsi—because they are still friends, even if they hate each other sometimes.

They are still friends and sometimes they remember how to breathe together so the room sounds silent inside their heads. Then she'll say things about wishing they could go back—not start over—just go back. They can't go back and move forward again skipping the mistakes. He wouldn't want to if they could. Justin is done with love.

He did love and fidelity and complete devotion (ok, 98.7 percent fidelity) for almost four years and all he has for all his trouble is a stack of tabloids piled two feet high by his fireplace. A stack of tabloids, an album that went platinum in under three weeks—enough to make the payments on his eight-million-dollar mortgage that he never wanted in the first place—and an ex-girlfriend who just called to let him know she'd found another piece of him left in her life.

He stares at the phone in his hand and wishes things would just stay lost.

"You're a fucking masochist," Trace says, taking the phone, hanging it up. He's had three beers, enough to be buzzed and Justin knows that means he'll swear at least three more times before he shuts up. "It's been a year. Just tell her to start packing the shit up and mailing it instead, man. If she can't afford to Fed-Ex it a mile, send a runner. But just block the fucking number and be fucking done with it."

Lynn says, "Trace is right, it's not like we really needed a third key for my bike."

"She's just... Britney. I mean it's not like she's purposely... " Justin starts. "We didn't exactly make things easy for each other. And there's still all this, this garbage making it impossible for it to just be over, but we're still friends."

Trace snorts.

"Don't," Justin warns. "But yeah, ok, yeah, last time."

Justin twists the beer bottle in his hand. He takes a swig and smirk a little. He's not sure he's telling the truth, but he going to be in England for a while after this. If he's lying, he has a few weeks and a few thousand miles to convince himself it's the truth. Trace claps him on the back and laughs loud and obnoxious. Justin manages to chuckle a little and look at his mom who smiles sadly. He knows she understands.

When Britney booked a flight out of San Francisco, he'd been quiet. Lynn was the one who found him the next morning, staring out the window at the throng of people on Market Street. His hands were trembling as they stripped waxy leaves from the potted plant on the sill. He didn't look at her, just stared down and asked how long it would be till he was over it, could escape it for good. Lynn hugged him and pulled him down so she could press a kiss against his forehead.

It wasn't till the next week that she told him that even now she was still a little in love, a little entangled, with his dad in some ways. "I would be even if we didn't share you," she said. That was when he cried.

He's never falling in love again. Not when he knows there is no such thing as a fresh start or still friends.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Justin tries hard not to pay attention to tabloids. He hates them in the same way he hates lima beans, passionately but able to ignore it unless they are right in front of him. Mostly he just finds them a minor annoyance as long as their photographers stay out of his bushes. After the break-up he realized he was living in a very different reality than the one they existed in. It's a little disconcerting really, because in their world, he became the playboy of the Western Hemisphere. The only problem, as far as he can tell, is that in his world no one bothered to tell him. He's had sex with two people in the year since Britney dumped him, and neither person was Jenna or Janet.

__

 

Jenna was ten kinds of cool. Completely unfazed by any part of working for Nsync or dancing at the Grammys. She was a friend, a good friend but only a friend. For a while. Late spring and she admitted she wasn't as unfazed by him as she acted. Justin took her out and paid for her drinks and kissed her in the car and again at her door. She invited him in and they made out like teenagers on her couch with hands wandering but not under fabric. He would have done it again, again and again but he checked his messages a couple days after that night.

"I can't do this, Justin. It's ridiculous. How do you stand it? There was a photographer following me in the fucking produce section today. How the fuck did they find out where I buy cucumbers? I can't even open half the magazines I have subscriptions to without seeing crap about myself. My grandmother's calling and yelling at me for being a harlot. Being the other woman... I mean I know I'm not, but it just doesn't feel right. I'm sorry. You're sweet, really. Maybe if things were different..."

But things weren't different, and Justin didn't want to make her known for all the wrong reasons. Stuck at second base and the game was called on account of media.

__

 

Janet wasn't a friend, an acquaintance, a co-worker and yes, object of lust. But he didn't really know her any better at 21 than he did at 18. He sent her a song and she agreed to sing on it. They danced a couple minutes at a party. He slid his hand around her waist, across her stomach and against the edge of her breast. Then got shot down... fast and hard.

"Justin, you're sweet, really," she said as she pulled his hand away. "But you just ended a pretty serious thing and really, you only want this for the publicity to piss her off. I'm over that game. Besides, you're fourteen years younger than me, it's just...creepy." She said.

"But like, look at Celine Dion and whatshisface... the old guy." It wasn't a winning argument. He sent a dozen roses and a card apologizing for implying that she was old. She recorded the song but made it clear she wouldn't appear in any video for it.

"She'd know from creepy," Justin bitched to Chris after the fact. "Look at her family."

"Dude, exactly... why would you want to get any of that? Seriously."

"She's fine?" Justin said.

"Mmm, true. Face it," Chris said, "your love life is going to suck toads, without the fun hallucinogenic side-effects, for at least a year, man."

"Thanks." Justin said and didn't talk to Chris for a week.

__

 

Alyssa he fucked, often and well. Often enough that he lost count from August to December and well enough that even after some long lens prick caught her leaving the house, she came back. She ranted about invasion of privacy and he had to bite his tongue to keep from saying she should be used to it. Then she bit it for him and put her hands in places that guaranteed he didn't much care about who or what was lurking in his shrubbery. He did ask what she thought about lining the property with poison ivy.

She was fun and loud and when they were alone she walked around his house in nothing but white cotton ankle socks bitching about the cold floors. He thought maybe things would be ok, maybe they were going right again. But it wasn't quite the same after he showed her the first draft of his liner notes. She patted his hand and kissed his cheek.

"You're sweet, really you are, Justin. But this is just fun. I mean, you understand that, right? I don't want to be your savior."

"No, right. Of course I do." So he re-wrote the liner notes, said "thank you' for what she taught him and kept sleeping with her till she got bored.

__

 

The other person... well, as far as he could figure, that one put him at two on the Kinsey scale. God bless childhood friends and birthday parties.

"You're fucking hot, man," Nick said in the morning, tracing a pattern over Justin's naked back with his fingers and tongue and that was such an improvement over "sweet, really.' Justin smiled. "Always knew that, and yeah, definitely still true when you're nekkid. But what a letdown, man."

Justin looked back over his shoulder and grunted unhappily.

"Sorry J, but you kinda suck at the whole hot gay sex thing. A lot."

"Oh fuck off," Justin said, rolling over and stretching his arms over his head. He grabbed the headboard and arched up till his back cracked. "At least I've got a good excuse. First, I was drunk man. And besides, I've never really tried it before. You still can't get past level five of Mario Brothers."

"Touché, bro." Nick dropped his hand to Justin's dick, started rubbing. "Maybe you pick things up faster than I do. Go again?"

"Hell yeah," Justin moaned and rolled over on top of him.

Justin was a fast learner.

"Well Happy Birthday to us," Nick said when, sticky and smelling of himself and Justin, he finally climbed out of the bed and made his way to the shower. Justin just smiled and stretched to feel the ache of well used muscles, and wondered if maybe he should have tried this much, much earlier.

Trace glared at him at lunch. "Just don't fuck it up, J. He's my friend, too."

Justin didn't say anything, paid his burrito closer attention than it deserved.

__

One year, two people, and the second can only be considered a birthday present because Nick had to go and fall in love while waiting for a double mocha at Starbucks. Justin hates Starbucks. He hates the fact that now that he's widened his horizons, Nick's "involved' and Trace is still too painfully straight to even consider. Hates that even if Trace were open to the possibility it would probably just fuck every thing up, and he hates that he constantly has to remind himself he doesn't want to fall in love again.

England and every morning, when a copy of The Sun or The Globe or whatever gossip column is overestimating his sexual activity shows up with his breakfast, he reminds himself. He's seen the seeds grow and blossom, wilt, shrivel and die. There's been enough lost sleep and weight. He's done with love and going to make sure the tabloids stop coming with breakfast.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He's lost track of how many weeks; how many flights back and forth. He remembers there have been seven different women that have supposedly warmed his bed and Justin is not so suddenly recalling that promotion bites. Justin loves performing, loves recording but the talking and answering questions leaves him cranky at best. At worst it leaves him yelling and swearing at fans that claw and cry and grab while he's waiting for his first real meal of the day at four in the afternoon. Doing it all alone leaves him raw and doing it in a country where his only reputation seems to be "Britney's Former Boy-Toy' just makes him want to go home and curl up in bed.

The only problem with that is home is eight thousand miles away and, from what he can tell, Tara's been logging more hours there than he has. He still can't wrap his mind around exactly how that happened.

"Tell me the truth, man," he says, "She's redecorating isn't she?" He'd ask Trace but that last thing Justin wants to do is make Trace think he doesn't approve, because he does, Tara's cool, so he's resorted to asking the next best person.

"J, chill." JC doesn't sound concerned, but Justin can't remember the last time JC really sounded concerned about anything. It's like he changed his middle name to "mellow out dude' right after Celebrity dropped. "It's casual, you know that. They're dating, it's not like they've set a date and started bickering over china patterns. True love is your shtick, remember?"

"Right." Justin doesn't say anything about being done with love and tries not to think about Tara's delicates hanging to dry in one of his bathrooms. "Anyway, Grammys. The arrangement looks good, I just wish we had a little more time. It's been too long."

"Nah, "s cool, not that long," JC says, and Justin remembers that yeah, that long since stage but not since the hotel before Toussad's. They all said it was just for play but he'd felt the change in the room when they were done. "What time does your flight get in anyway?"

"No fucking clue. I don't even know what time it is right now. I don't think I ever reset my watch when I got back here this time. Fly out, rehearse, show, party, maybe take a nap and fly back man. Remind me why I thought international promotion was a good idea, again?"

"To sell more, make more and stop being referred to as "Britney's former boy-toy' in the Sun?"

"Right, because being the guy who bedded Baby Spice is so much better."

"You dog," JC laughs.

"Fuck off." Justin hangs up the phone and stares at the repeat of Friends on the muted TV. He recognizes the episode and wrinkles his nose as he presses the power button. He's never falling in love again and he's sure as fuck not looking for a lobster.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The parties aren't close to over. They won't be over for days for some, but Justin has to fly back to England in fewer hours than he wants to think about and jetlag is a bitch even without the dull saw of a hangover ripping through his skull. He's caught between Chris and Lance, watching JC bend in half with laughter at something. He's comfortable there, but he'd be more comfortable in bed. He's drunk, not really drunk, but he's just gone enough that when Chris doesn't move the first time he asks, he starts to climb over him.

"No," Chris says firmly, slamming his drink on the table. "Fuck no man, you are not going back to the hotel yet, you pussy. It's at least three hours to dawn"

"Chris," and fuck if he isn't whining, half standing on the bench seat. "You let Joey go home an hour ago."

"And if you had a kid, a girlfriend skilled at the purple-nurple, and a babysitter being paid serious overtime waiting for your return, I'd let you go too. Sadly you're lacking on all fronts. Besides, have you even played nice with your dirty?" Chris pokes him in the forehead, pushing his head back. "Are you gonna leave us all alone to explain to Nelly?

"Give him a break," Lance says, pink through the cheeks and in full drawl. "Hey Justin, how many times have you crossed time zones in the last two months?"

Justin isn't drunk, not really, but he always had trouble keeping track of how many time zones it is to England, especially when he's not sure where he's counting from. He starts counting on his fingers anyway. He's not drunk, but he'd still have to take off his shoes keep track of them all, and Chris always makes fun of his toes. It doesn't really matter. "Too fucking many," he says.

"H'up we go then," Lance says, sliding out his side. Justin wriggles past and stands, steadier than he thinks he probably should be. It's quick but real hugs because he's back across the ocean in the morning and a page to his driver. The air when he hits the door is colder than he expects, he pulls his collar up and tucks his head down, moving quickly towards the waiting car.

"J, J, wait up." Justin looks back and JC is there, fuzzy around the edges, hair rebelling, trying desperately to curl. "You going back?"

"Yeah, I'm wiped"

"I'll come back with you."

"Nah," Justin shakes his head. "You're having a time and a half, I'm just gonna try and catch a few hours of sleep."

"I'm coming back. I've got the rough-cut of a track, you've gotta hear it. Five minutes tops, then you can conk. Cool?" JC's bouncing and Justin's not about to say no.

Justin's room is cold, the window open. JC's mouth is sweet and bitter with mint and alcohol against his. Then teeth are sharp at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. They've been undressing for half an hour and only shirts have hit the floor.

Justin can't remember a measure of the song JC played for him or how they got from that to this. He's going to remember JC's breath against his ear forever. Hands with clumsy, confused fingers fumble at the waistband of his pants, his or JC's he's not sure, but they remember how to work long enough to pull the button open and zipper down. And oh, they aren't his hands. His hands never make his entire body shudder and arch at the first touch.

"Not drunk, right? No regrets?" The words filter through to his brain slowly and Justin shakes his head.

"Not drunk, want this." He's not. Maybe he was a little while ago, but he's not anymore, not with JC pressed hard against him, sliding down. He's not drunk, and he's not in love, just hard and panting. "Not gonna mess us up, right? Just friends and sex?"

"Yeah," JC says, the word vibrating against Justin's thigh and then the mouth moves and JC is hot around him and he is pressing up, being pulled in further and further. JC's hands are everywhere, fingers digging into his side, his thighs, pressing his hips back down against the bed. He wants this, needs this, tries to say so. His mouth can't work when JC's is working so hard. Justin looks down and JC's looking back up at him and he's pulled over the edge, body quaking.

He's at Justin's mouth again and Justin opens to taste him and himself. JC presses against his thigh and Justin opens his legs, let's JC tangle with him, over him, hair falling against his face, cock against his hip and rolling, rocking, coming. They wipe themselves clean and the middle of the bed is empty as they fall asleep not touching.

It's not love. It's friends and sex, and sleep.

Justin barely registers when JC crawls over him to the edge of the bed. He blinks once, licks out at JC's lips when they press against his and rolls into the warm spot JC left behind. When he wakes up a second time it's to the sound of water running. He slides out of bed and crosses the room to the open bathroom door. He's naked, unashamed and not nearly as hung-over or bone-deep tired as he expected to be, all things considered.

"I don't love you," he says, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. JC is standing naked in front of the sink, brushing his teeth with Justin's toothbrush. He's not trying to be mean, but they slept together last night and JC kissed him this morning all stubble and morning breath and now he's using Justin's toothbrush. There's a first time for everything, and sure JC's used his toothbrush before but Justin wants to be certain that they're on the same page as far as the rest of it goes. "I mean, best friends and everything, right? And we can definitely do what we did last night again...if you want. Because you're really good at that, ok that sounds stupid, true but really stupid. Anyway we can totally fuck again, but I'm not gonna fall in love with you or shit like that."

"Right," JC nods, spits, rinses the toothbrush and hands it to Justin. Justin yawns.

"So." And hey, at least he's stopped babbling.

"So, what time's your flight?" JC scratches his belly, low, and Justin watches the slide and flex of skin under his fingers.

"Yeah?" Justin says.

"Yeah. But brush your teeth man."

By the time Justin puts a line of Colgate on the bristles and wets them, JC's pulling a condom from the pocket of last night's pants. He doesn't bother flossing.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Justin has housekeepers who come in once a week to dust the rooms that no one sleeps in, do any laundry that Justin hasn't done himself and clean up left over messes. There usually isn't much to do because Justin may be rich but his mama raised him to pick up after himself and he hates mess enough that leaving it till Tuesday at three in the afternoon is a struggle. So he has housekeepers who he pays to do what he's already done if he's had time. He has groundskeepers because he has multiple acres and even with a riding mower it's hours of work just to cut his grass, they groom his putting green and fight back the wild shrubbery on the edges of the property. They do not touch the flowerbeds.

Justin doesn't know everything about flowers, doesn't pretend to. But he knows what he learned on hot summer days in his grandmother's yard.

\--

Her garden was never the biggest in town and sometimes, when her arthritis was bad, it got a little rough around the edges. When the creepers snuck in and tried to strangle out her orchids and lilies, Justin took time out if she couldn't to cut them back. The happiest memories Justin has that aren't of singing are of the hours he spent kneeling in the rich dark soil, her hands next to his as they pulled dying blooms from geraniums, trimming back the grass sneaking into the flower beds. It's not something he tells people. Not because it would damage his rep but because it's something deeply personal, almost more so than any part of his relationship with Britney ever was.

When he broke his foot and retreated to Memphis and to Mom, he spent the days picking Sadie's brain about landscaping, because she may not be a professional, but she's known for years what he can take care of, and that was the point.

"I want it to be mine," he said, "I don't want it to be perfect, just... mine."

She understood exactly what he meant.

"You've got to be careful, a garden says things about a person," she told him. "Lilies of the Valley, of course. Do you remember what they mean?"

"Happiness returns?" Justin's not sure anymore, dance steps and melody lines have taken over the memories of The Language of Flowers. It sounds right though.

"That's right," she says nodding. "And roses if you think you can take care of them. A lemon tree would be lovely and practical if you still remember how to make my lemonade. But be a little adventurous, too, maybe Birds of Paradise. And remember to be patient, things don't always bloom in the first season and sometimes it might even look dead, but don't give up. Prune carefully, but remember, sometimes you have to cut things all the way back to the root so they can grow healthy again, like my Miss Kim. You remember that?"

He did. His grandfather cut the lilac bush almost to the point of gone one spring after three years of no blossoms but the summer and fall were busy and winter was strangely cold and the ground froze so he couldn't get the roots up. Its blossoms the next spring were the most beautiful things Justin had ever seen.

"And a magnolia tree," she said, pointed to the sweeping branches visible through her kitchen window. "Perseverence the book says, but I say it's home."

Justin wrote it all down and remembered and made sure that someone who knew what they were doing planted them, but after that it was up to him.

\--

March and things are starting to heat up in the garden and for the tour. Justin's body is mostly back on Pacific time, not necessarily well rested, but he knows when to complain about the time instead of always wondering. Marty's working him hard already, but it's fun in the way hard work has always been fun for him. Even better are the days it ends early, when Justin's given leave to go home before the sun sets because he has time for everything. He checks out the lemon tree by the basket ball court and the Birds of Paradise along the side of the house. Everything is starting to fill in, he's waiting on the roses but he remembers that his grandmother said they might not bloom the first year.

The magnolia, is on the same side of the house as his bedroom. A Little Gem because he doesn't have the patience, might not even have the house in the ten years it would take to get the first blossoms of a Grandiflora. It will never be like the one at home, never quite so big, but it is his. It's the only thing he planted himself and for a while he was sure he'd hurt it. Now, there are the very beginnings of buds, still closed, but promising. He dreams of the day the branches will scratch against his bedroom window.

"I'm done, done, done," he sing-songs to the voicemail that picks up without any rings. "Man, it's early and Marty left me with energy to burn. You know I can never fall asleep sleep when that happens. Come help." He doesn't know how long it will be before JC gets the message, maybe ten minutes, maybe five hours, maybe not till tomorrow. He hopes it's soon. It's the truth, he can't sleep when he has this much energy left but JC leaves him drained.

They've fucked seven times since the Grammys and every time Justin's made sure things are clear. He's never thought he'd be so happy to not love someone.

He waits.

There is a pile of take-out menus by the fridge, but Justin by passes them for the loaf of bread and package of ham that he knows still has four days before he has to start worrying about it going bad. He piles the meat on thick, lettuce, tomato, mustard...no mayonnaise, because it was out on the counter when he got home and the air had been off. He'll have to talk to Trace about that.

The Simpsons is on when he turns on the TV and since it's not the one he was in, he leaves it. It's normal, eight o'clock with a ham sandwich and syndicated television and Justin sometimes wishes people could see him when he's like this. Usually he just wishes this happened more often.

He's in the shower when JC finally gets there, half past eleven and still buzzing with energy and endorphins. JC slips under the water with him, sleek and gleaming.

"'Bout time," Justin says. "I was starting to wonder."

"Recording, thanks for asking how it's going." JC says. If it weren't for all the naked skin in front of him, Justin might ask and listen. He doesn't. Shower sex is hot in theory but Justin's not always coordinated when he's so fucking turned on he can barely stand and the last thing he needs is more broken bones. He learned that lesson with Alyssa the hard way. He drags JC out of the shower and into the bedroom.

There is a spot on JC's back, two inches below a triangle freckles, that makes him arch and open in the most delicious ways when Justin runs his teeth over it. It tastes like the homemade chocolate soap that Justin always buys. He sucks and nibbles until JC's legs are flung wide, hips working and pressing back against the two fingers he has inside.

"Fuck, J," JC gasps, and Justin smiles.

"Kinda the plan, yeah." Justin takes his fingers back, slides his cock in in their place and presses JC down into the bed. They are slick already with water, soaked skin and soaked sheets underneath them and the slide of everything is so perfect, so easy, so hot. Justin shudders over him, thrusting and rocking and crying muffled words into the smooth, hot curve of JC's neck, buries them unintelligible under the skin.

"God, oh, oh. Please," JC moans under him. "Yeah, right there. Right there."

Justin bites his tongue to keep from screaming, keep from speaking, saying something almost a reflex but not true, because he doesn't love JC, even if orgasm makes him want to say it. He pulls out, rolls JC over and slides down him, sucks him in and finishes. The bed is soaked, white sheets translucent and he'll never be able to sleep in it tonight.

"C'mon," he says when he has his breath back. "Guest room."

"You kickin' me out, J?" JC rolls out of the bed, he looks limp, used and beautiful.

"No, never. Just... next time we remember towels between shower and bed, ok?" Justin says as he strips down the sheets, leaves them piled on the floor.

"Mm, yeah, ok. Next time." JC runs his hand through his hair, wild around his face. "Now sleep?"

"Yeah." They stumble down the hall, naked still and Justin's glad Trace is at Tara's, hopes they're happy, having as much fun as him. Then there are crisp, cool sheets under his skin and JC next to him, touching him with light soft hands over his chest.

"Sleepy now?" JC asks, pressing his mouth against Justin's neck, not a kiss, just an open press below his ear.

"Mm-hmm, you done worn me out, C." Justin shivers and shudders, feels his body and brain shut down.

 

"Good." JC says, wraps and arm around Justin's waist and hauls him close. "Good."

Justin feels JC loosen behind him, feels the arm over him go slack and heavy, the little sleepy twitches of JC's body against his. His own body feels heavy with sleepy, but he's still tense, wound tightly. He knows why. He pulls away from JC's touch, rolls over and stares at the closed lids, the shadow of beard over his jaw. Justin reaches out, touches the warm skin over JC's heart.

"I don't love you," he says, feels the tension slip out from his shoulders. JC twitches and shudders in his sleep, frown lines creasing his forehead.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

April comes and rehearsal kicks into high gear. The dancers have been around but the crews showing up now, too. He's comfortable as ever with Tim and Anthony and even Steve's agreed to be on the tour crew, and he gets along with his dancers and back-up, but comfortable isn't family. Comfortable isn't family so Lynn will be there as manager and mom and Trace is on the payroll even though he says he doesn't have to be. Fun as it all is, he finds he's looking forward to fall already.

"It's weird," he says to Lance. "I mean, it's the same in a lot of ways, because, rehearsal. But sometimes, sometimes. I don't know. It's like, ok, take yesterday?"

"Where am I taking it?" Lance asks. He sounds bored and Justin really wishes he wasn't having this conversation over the phone during a badly catered lunch of pasta and something masquerading as Chicken Caesar Salad.

"You're going to think it's stupid."

"Probably," Lance agrees, "but when has that every stopped any of us before?"

Justin sighs. "I don't know how to do this without you guys. Like, perform, fine. I've done performances and I'm ok with it."

"You're more than ok," Lance says.

"Yeah, ego's fine right now, thanks for trying though. What I'm saying is I'm fine with performing but I've got no fucking clue how to be on tour without the five of us. Trace is gonna be on my bus, and Mom, but... they aren't Chris and JC."

"Well, no they aren't," Lance says, and Justin senses a speech coming and takes a large bite of his pasta. "I understand it might be hard to remember since Chris and Trace are about the same size, but as long as you don't try to fuck your Mom you should be ok."

Justin spews his mouthful of pasta across the table. He's afraid for a second he's going to choke. "Fucking Christ, Lance. Don't say shit like that to me. Not ever, but especially not when I'm eating and—wait..."

"Don't you dare ask me how I know you're sleeping with JC. If you ask me that, I'm going to hang up, and then I'm going to fly out there and kick your ass. He told me. That's how I know and I think I'm actually a little offended that you didn't tell me. Do Chris and Joey know and I just got left out of the loop?"

"You're not out of the loop," Justin says, looking around. No one is paying him any attention, he gets up to put more distance between himself and anyone who might hear without trying to and be tempted to sell him out. "Chris and Joey don't know and you do so you're a fuck lot more in the loop than others. I mean, Trace knows because JC cooks breakfast sometimes if he stays all night, and Tara because, well because she's there for breakfast sometimes too. But there isn't a loop to be out of, swear."

"You're dating JC and there's no loop?"

"I am not," Justin stops, squeezes the bridge of his nose between fingers. "I can't say this firmly enough. I am not dating JC. Yes, we are sleeping together when we're both horny and in the same time-zone. But under no definition of the word dating, except maybe the same one that says JC was dating Tara and you were dating Kathy Lee Gifford, am I'm dating JC."

"Except for the fact that JC and Tara and Kathy and I never slept together, Thank God. You and JC have. Repeated times." Lance is laughing at him.

"I hate you." Justin does, right now he really does, because he's afraid that maybe Lance thinks JC and he are dating because that's what JC said. "Did he say we were dating?"

"No," and there goes that reason to hate him, he's sure he'll think of others. "He said that you're fucking and that you've got some issues he doesn't think are very healthy right now, but that the sex is good and he's willing to overlook that for a little while so long as it doesn't seem to make them worse. Oh, and that you don't love him. But he's ok with that."

"I don't have issues!" Justin yells, cringes when he hears the volume of his own voice and looks up only to see a trio of dancers staring at him wide-eyed. He finds a more appropriate decibel level. "I don't have issues."

He doesn't. There are no issues involved, that's the beauty of the entire arrangement, good sex and no emotional issues to complicate it. JC is still his best friend, but that's separate and safe and something untouchable, not like the way love and friendship and sex was all the same thing with Britney and now none of it exists anymore.

"Fine, right. You don't have issues. You are the king of well adjusted." Justin is pretty sure Lance is still laughing but doesn't interrupt. "But we seem to have veered wildly from the original subject. You can't tour without us."

"The fuck I can't," Justin says. "Thanks for reminding me what a bunch of pain in the asses you are. I can't wait to experience the road without ya'll up in my business."

"Glad to help," Lance says. "And hey, dating JC... you could do worse. You have done worse."

"Yeah, thanks. And drop it. It's sex. It's good sex but..." Justin wants to explain to someone, thinks maybe Lance might understand. He never seems heartbroken when his relationships crash and burn so he must know how to not fall in love.

"But what?"

"Do you really want JC and me to be friends like Britney and I are friends? Because if I date JC and we break up, that's what you'd get. So sex." Justin checks his watch, lunch is almost over and if he isn't back to ready to rehearse in three minutes, Marty's going to kick his ass.

"I thought you and Britney are still friends."

"Yeah well... "Still friends' is a lot different than friends. She didn't put a hit out on me or anything, but I think it was a close call, and I don't think she was as ok with the video as she claimed she was."

"Oh," Lance says, "ouch."

"Yeah." Justin hangs up without saying goodbye when Marty shouts for him. He'll apologize tomorrow. Love bites, but he doesn't have time to think about that now.

After rehearsal he goes to JC's house. It's good, hard and fast and JC holding his hands above his head and leaving marks in his skin that burn and brand him. Justin leaves when it's over, puts his sweaty clothes back on and goes home. He falls into bed without showering. The extra pillow on his bed still smells like JC from the night before. He slides his hand over the surface of the pillowcase, presses his nose against it.

"I don't believe in love," he says.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

JC goes to England to "vibe with a different sound,' and Chris comes to visit Justin. He doesn't call ahead, is just waiting on the couch when Justin comes down in the morning, a Krispy Kreme in his mouth

"Hey man," Chris says, muffled around the donut. Justin waves, passes by and wanders into the kitchen. When he's got cereal and instant coffee he comes back.

"So. You and C, huh?" Chris says before Justin can get the first spoonful to his mouth.

"Fuck," he groans. "C tell you? Or do I have reason to kill Lance?"

"If I tell you that you have reason to kill Lance, are you going to actually do it? Or will you just plot for a while and then forget?" Chris asks. Justin shrugs. "I'll take that as plot and forget. Yeah. Lance."

"Fucker," Justin says. Chris doesn't say anything else, just takes another bite of his donut. Justin slurps the milk from his cereal.

It's hours later, after rehearsal, after a ride, after greasy burgers and a couple beers that Chris brings it up again.

"So what's the deal, man? I'm good enough to hear about your romances unless it's one of our mutual friends you're romancing? And since when do you woo boys? I should know these things." Chris waves the half-full bottle in front of Justin's face, leering. "You think I don't want details?"

"Not romancing," Justin mumbles. "Just fucking. And you knew I was bi."

"Bullshit." Chris tosses a pretzel at Justin's head. "I knew you were bi in theory, like that you could appreciate that Brad Pitt was aesthetically attractive. I never knew you'd want to be bedding JC. And don't give me a line of crap about you having a fuck-buddy. You don't know how not to romance. You're like the high poobah of grand love affairs, kid."

"Not anymore." Justin retrieves the pretzel from it's resting place at his collar, pops it in his mouth. "I've totally learned my lesson. Love is a con, a disaster waiting to happen. You told me that years ago and I get it now. Why doesn't anyone believe that I'm over that? I mean, JC gets it, why can't ya'll?"

Justin plucks at the skin on his arm, reminds himself that it's true. Everything he's done, everything he's learned, it all adds up to this, friends and good fucking and not getting his emotions twisted up in it so it turns ugly and tangled. He lost himself in Britney, could have with Alyssa if she hadn't laughed and burst the bubble of potential. He's not going to repeat the same mistakes anymore, not with anyone, but especially not with JC.

"Right, fine. Mr. Romance has given up on love. Still, you couldn't at least tell me you're getting some? I was worried I was going to have to hire you some loving soon." Chris smiles. Justin doesn't like the way it doesn't reach his eyes, like there is something wrong with something Justin's said.

"Ok, fine. JC and I have been sleeping together since the Grammys. It's fucking hot, and he doesn't love me and I don't love him and it's good that way. Now you know." Justin doesn't want to talk about it anymore. This is why he didn't tell anyone, because he knew they'd ask and now... Now the words taste wrong in his mouth even though they're true. He gets up, leaves Chris in front of the TV and walks outside.

It's still warm, but cooling fast and the grass is sharp and moist against his ankles. He has acres of land, some he hasn't even seen yet. He wants to see it now, look at it rather that have Chris look at him like he doesn't approve. He hasn't done anything wrong. He's doing everything right, learning a hard lesson he should have learned long ago just from watching everyone else.

He's not sure how far he's walked, not even sure if he's still on his own property when he sits down. The ground is soft underneath him and he pounds his fists against it, growls and screams and kicks like he is two instead of twenty-two. When the muscles in his arms are sore and aching, he stands and wanders his way back. Chris is waiting for him on the front steps.

"You feel better?" he says.

Justin opens his mouth, changes his mind and just nods instead.

"Listen. I know you're all kinds of fucked up-"

"I'm not," Justin interrupts.

"Ok. You're not but you're still all kinds of bitter over shit and fine, you don't want to be in love right now, that's great. JC and you wanna fuck, that's cool. But, J, listen to me. You're twenty two, just. You don't know everything. I don't know everything, and despite what you might want to believe, not even your mom knows everything. We love you like nuts but we don't know what's best for you and whoever the fuck scared you off of love, and I know it's not Britney, because you still wanted it after her. Whoever it was... they sure as fuck don't know."

Justin shrugs. It's too late. Too late at night, too late in general to have this conversation. There are ten thousand things he could say to end the conversation and leave Chris pissed with him. It's not worth it.

"We'll see," is all he says.

Chris bumps against his hip and pushes him toward the door. "That's all I ask. Now sleep dude. Because if you're a corpse tomorrow, you know damn well you'll make sure it gets taken out on me next tour and dude, my joints are too old for petty revenge."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Justin is outside pruning back some damaged branches on a rosebush that just started to bloom yesterday. He noticed the browned, drooping ends three days ago, but he's just now had time to get to them.

"Call a gardener, J," Trace says, his shadow falling over Justin. Justin flips him off, fingers looking ten times thicker than they are in gardening gloves.

"I am a gardener." Justin clips the branch neatly, tosses it to the ground and inspects the fresh edge.

"You're a pop star who admitted on TV that he doesn't know how to use a rake," Trace laughs.

"I lie. You know damn well that I always helped Gram. Do not cast aspersions on my horticultural abilities." Justin glares, threatening Trace with the clippers. "What's up?"

"Don't try to intimidate me with big words. I'm the one that bought you the word of the day calendar, remember? Anyway," Trace tosses him his cell phone. "Check your voice mail. It's been ringing for like the last three hours."

To prove the point, before Justin can even get the gloves off it's ringing again. It's her number on display and he knows as soon as he sees it that he lied. No amount of time in England could make him believe the promise he made. He'll be at her door in less than an hour he's sure.

"I don't care what it is," he says in lieu of hello. "I really don't. Trash it, keep it, sell it on ebay for all I care."

If she believes him he just might be able to keep his word.

"Um, Justin? I'm selling the house. I just thought maybe you should know." It definitely is not what he was expecting.

"Oh. Oh, well. It's your house. Right?" He runs his finger across the creamy velvet of one of the rose blooms. He wonders if maybe he should invest in some trellises. "I mean, I'm not on any of the paperwork anymore so, whatever. And I'm not really in the market for another house, if that's why your calling. Three is enough."

"Don't be a prick, Justin," she says and he wants to remind her that he's the one with reason to be bitter and angry, except he's supposed to be past that now.

"Sorry," is what he says instead.

"I was actually just hoping you'd be willing to come over and, I dunno, help me make sure I don't end up taking any of your stuff to a new place. A clean break, finally, you know?"

Justin knows. A clean break doesn't mean no sharp edges, but maybe if they do this there won't be so many. "When? I mean, I'm leaving tomorrow and when I get back, I've got... like a week."

"When you get back. Just an afternoon. I'll try to have almost everything sorted so maybe only a few hours. Can you spare that?"

"I'll call." Justin sighs, reaches out to prune another branch and curses under his breath when a thorn presses into his palm and draws blood.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sold out shows, a number one album, and a cell phone plan that's getting serious over time and Justin's happy. Horny as fuck, and a little lonely but he's mostly happy. He glares at Trace on the way back to the hotel because Trace has someone waiting for him. Tara's long gone and Justin doesn't like this new one, Elisha, as much, especially not the way she sometimes seems more interested in him than in Trace, but still. Trace is getting some and he's not, though not for lack of willing, more than willing people. If the press was willing to match him up with people before, they've gone into overtime now. All this with no one coming to bed with him makes Justin fear what would happen if he actually did bring someone back. So he doesn't.

"Joey, come visit," he whines. "I'm lonely and neglected and none of you care about me at all anymore. Hell, if you don't care about me, bring your girl and let her Uncle Steve spend some time with her."

Joey's laugh is boisterous and Justin doesn't have the heart to explain that he's half-serious.

"Justin, I'm a little busy right now. Besides, you know I'm not the one you want there." Joey's voice is teasing, and Justin's tempted to hang up because he knows where this is going.

"No, not you too. I explained it already. You of all people should get it." Justin wants to punch something, he's so sick of this conversation, so tired of the laughter and disbelieving looks from everyone except JC when he tells them it's not about love. Joey was worst of all, should have been the most understanding because even though he loves Kelly with all his heart, they've still got the agreement about his body that they had when he left for Germany. "If you can sleep with people and not fall in love, why can't I?"

"I'm not saying you can't, J. I'm just saying you can't not love JC." There is indulgence in the answer, like Justin is still fifteen and coming to him with questions about how to pick up girls with his limited German. "You do love him, like he loves you and I love you and you love Chris."

"It's not like that, though," Justin says, flopping back on the hotel bed and he almost wishes he had asked for mirrors on the ceiling. If they were there he could at least flop back and make faces at himself at the same time. It's not like they'd have gotten any other use. "Of course I love him like that, but that has nothing to do with the sex. It's just, they're two totally different compartments of my life."

"Right, of course. Silly me." Joey doesn't sound happy and God, Justin wishes JC had never told Lance because this was never supposed to be this big of a deal. "You have fun, J. I'm sorry I can't make it over, but it'll work out. And everything will be fine. Trust me."

"Always," Justin says and the good-byes are quick and easy, but Justin can tell he's said, done something wrong.

He's almost asleep when the knock on the door comes and he doesn't want to answer, doesn't want to move. But the knock comes again and again and sleep will be there faster if he just tells them to go away instead of waiting for them to get the point.

"What the fuck you do you want?" he says swinging open the door, enough trust in security that he doesn't check the peephole.

"Well, hello to you, too. You sound like you need a little stress relief. Can I help?"

"C! What are you doing here?" Justin throws his arms around JC and drags him into the room. "God, missed you."

"You thought I'd miss this?" JC laughs and kisses him hard, lips and teeth crushing together. They strip neatly and fuck messily but slowly. Justin's hands glide over JC's sides, grip his hands and hold tight. Justin closes his eyes as he presses in and slides home, keeps them closed to hold in tears that he doesn't understand and he can taste blood seeping from his tongue. He turns his face away when JC leans in for one last kiss, doesn't want him to know. JC sighs and settles for pressing his lips to Justin's temple before rolling away.

"Tell me about the album," Justin says, ignoring the flutter in his stomach and chest when JC grins. He listens to the sound of JC's voice, some of the words slip by, but he knows that JC is happy. He's happy, too.

When JC falls asleep, Justin goes to the bathroom, rinses his mouth. "I don't love him," he says to his reflection. "I'm not in love."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"You're in love," Britney says, the words slurring together from tequila and tiredness. Justin is sprawled on her carpet, surrounded by boxes filled with every last bit of him left behind. He rolls his head back and forth but he can feel the blush rising as she says it again. "You're so totally in love."

"'M not, not in love with JC," Justin says, gulping from the half empty bottle. He's pretty sure she's had as much as him, but maybe not. "Just a really good fuck. Not allowed to love him"

"JC!" Britney squeals, "You're in love with JC?"

"Fuck, wasn't sposed to tell you that," Justin moans. "Forget I said it, drink more so you forget. You're not supposed to know stuff about me anymore."

"Why not? Justin, you're my friend," Britney says and Justin squinches up his nose, glares at her. She's a lot more sober than he is. "Don't look at me like that, you are. I want you to be happy, and you're not. You're so sad, and it's my fault. Maybe not all my fault but a little, right? JC could make you happy, like really happy like we were in the beginning. You love him."

"No. No, no, no. Stop saying that. Love fucks it all up," Justin wipes his hand against his face and looks at it when it comes away wet. He tastes his fingers and they are salty. "Just fucks everything up."

Britney crawls across the floor and settles down next to him, Justin looks up and her and she is all blurry and he doesn't want to see her anymore so he closes his eyes. Her hand settles against his head and pets his hair, what little of it there is.

"Shh, shh. Don' cry, Justin. "s ok. I'll make it ok." Her hand is gone and when Justin opens his eyes the next time, JC is leaning over him, pulling on his arms, pulling him up.

"C'mon, Justin. Let's get you home," JC says and Justin finds enough balance to stand, slumps against JC and lets him lead him to the car. They keep the windows rolled down on the drive home and the cold air against his face wakes him up even if it doesn't make him anymore sober.

When the engine turns off, and JC is dragging him from the car he's awake enough for what he wants and he's worked his hands down the back of JC's pants before they're even to his front door.

"Justin, no, come on. You're trashed," JC says as Justin latches onto his neck, sucking on the tendons.

"Want you to fuck me, need you. Been so long, please." And he is drunk, is so drunk, but he's not lying because it has been so long. Days, weeks maybe. He's forgetting what JC feels like over him, inside him, with him and he needs it, needs to know one more time before he ends it all. He has to end it soon, end it now, because Britney's right. He's in love and he can't be in love, can't ruin another friendship like he ruined that one. His fingers slip around, wrap about JC's cock and tighten. "Please, please, just fuck me."

"God, god, ok. Ok, let's just, god, let's just get upstairs."

The bedroom, Justin's bedroom and the sheets are cool against his back and JC is hot between his legs, spreading him open, breaking him apart at the seams and he feels so full, so right. His mouth is open, panting and gasping against JC's cheek and he can hear his own words so loud like gunfire in his head.

"Love you, I love you. I love, love you. Love you so much, JC, love you." He can taste salt and tequila in his mouth and he's not sure if the salt is sweat or tears or who it is from, not sure of anything except JC inside him, completely inside him burrowing his way all the way to his heart. He comes hard and crying, bursting into a million pieces.

"Shh, I know. I know. I love you, Justin." JC pets his hands over Justin's face, thumbs rubbing away the tears pooling under his eyes. "I know."

Justin knows he's lying.

It's the alcohol that wakes him up in the morning, his head screaming at him loudest but the rest of his body is angry, too. He's scared, because JC is still in bed, still asleep and Justin has no idea how to make this ok. He was so drunk, but he still remembers what he said, only hopes that JC will forgive him for ruining everything.

Justin rolls out of bed, his stomach sour and barely makes it to the bathroom before Britney's tequila takes its revenge. He flushes the toilet and pulls himself up. His face in the mirror is red, blotchy and almost bruised. He rinses his mouth, brushes his teeth without toothpaste because he's not sure he could handle anything minty-fresh right now, and decides he hates Britney.

JC is still asleep, sprawled where Justin was when he comes out of the bathroom and it's like the first time in reverse, only it's the last time because he broke his promise. He fucked it all up, just like he swore he wasn't going to and it just proves he was right about love all along. Fresh boxers and jeans and he leaves JC in the middle of his bed, goes outside and hopes that JC will just leave. The sun is too bright and his eyes hurt, but they should, it's punishment for not keeping his promises. He wasn't supposed to go to Britney's, wasn't supposed to love JC.

The sun is warm on his back, too warm, he can feel the sweat already and he doesn't worry about getting burned, doesn't care. The roses died while he was in England, blossoms wilting and falling off, the leaves are brown and dry now and Justin can't stand to see them tucked along the side of the house, stiff and dead.

His arms are scratched and bloody, hands caked with dirt when JC finds him.

"You're an idiot," He says. Justin doesn't look up.

"Sorry." Justin stops digging at the roots of the plant, rubs his hands across his jeans, streaks of blood and mud left behind. "I'm sorry I fucked everything up. I knew I was going to, I tried to do it right, the way we promised. No love, right? I'm sorry."

JC sits down next him, takes Justin's dirty hands in his and stares at them.

"I don't want you to be sorry," JC says, and it's the same thing his parents used to say when he disobeyed. I don't want you to be sorry, I want you to learn. Justin hasn't learned anything and that's the problem.

"I don't know what else to do, I tried not to fall in love. I didn't mean to tell you." Justin pulls his hands away, clenches them tight, fingers digging where thorns have dug already.

"You're an idiot," JC says again, like Justin doesn't know this already. He knows so well, better than JC could ever imagine. "Come inside."

JC gets up and goes, doesn't look back. Justin follows.

The bathroom is cool and white, stark, severe, Justin wishes there were some color somewhere, doesn't know what he was thinking when he remodeled it. JC pushes him up onto the counter and digs through the medicine cabinet coming back with antiseptic and cotton balls. Justin sits still. He watches as JC cleans his arms, his hands, does his best not to flinch at the sting of alcohol in open wounds.

As soon as JC steps away to throw out the wrappers and moist, pink swabs, Justin leaves—goes to his bedroom. This time it is JC that follows. He stands behind Justin at the foot of the bed, close enough that Justin can feel the heat of him, but not actually touching. Justin stares at the wrinkled sheets.

"In case you haven't noticed Britney called me to come over there and get your drunk off your ass self for a reason. Because even she knows that you're being an idiot." There is that word again and Justin really wishes it didn't exist. JC's hands are sliding up along the outside of Justin's waist, across his chest, wrapping around tight. Justin feels that awful, terrible flutter in his body, the one he loves, hates, wants to forget right now and remember forever. "Yeah, she's one of the ones that broke you but she's trying to help fix you. But you're too stubborn and determined to be miserable and "single' to even recognize a good thing when it's in your bed. By the way, in case you forgot. I said it back. I said it back and I meant it. I love you, too."

"What?" Justin knows JC said something, heard the sounds, felt his mouth move where it's almost pressed to his neck, but he knows he can't have heard right.

"I love you."

"No," Justin pulls JC's hands, forces them apart and away. He won't let JC do this. Justin's messed up but it's just Justin, if JC can forget they can go back to being friends. But JC can't say it back. He turns, his hands planted firm in the center of JC's chest, heart beating under his palms. He pushes and watches and JC stumbles two steps back. He needs more space, goes to the window. "No you don't. You can't."

"Why not?" JC asks.

"Because love ruins everything. It's hard, and it's miserable and it ruins everyone and it never works. Mom and Dad, Lynne and Jamie, Chris and Dani, Britney and me, it never works." Justin won't cry, he cried last night and that's enough, he's not a child. An idiot maybe, but not a child.

"You're an idiot," JC says.

"You think I don't know that?" and damn, he's crying. "You think I don't know that I've fucked up everything, that I've totally ruined our friendship now like Britney and I are ruined? Yes, I'm an idiot, ok? You can stop rubbing it in."

"How long have Sadie and William been married?" JC is close behind him again, at the window this time. East outside and the sun is in a square around their feet.

"What?" The question doesn't make any sense.

"Your grandparents," JC's speaking slowly, softly against the shell of Justin's ear. "How long have they been married?"

Justin closes his eyes, thinks of the engraving on the inside of the wedding band that he's seen once, only once because they never take them off. "Forty-eight years," he says.

"Do they still love each other?"

Justin thinks about the look on his grandfather's face when his grandmother walks into a room, nods.

"And my parents? Joey's, Lance's, your Mom and Paul?" JC says, one hand coming to rest on Justin's shoulder. "Are they still happy?"

Justin nods again, swallows when the other hand touches him too.

"It's like," JC pauses, and Justin is still under his hands except for the shaking he cannot stop. "It's like your garden."

Justin shakes his head. It's nothing like his garden.

"It's like your garden. Your roses, they aren't dead because you can't keep anything alive. You just didn't pay them enough attention. You got so distracted by your Little Gem and making sure that someone took care of it while you were gone that you totally forgot to ask one of the groundskeepers to look after the roses."

"Yeah, I fucked up." Justin doesn't understand what JC is saying. Not at all. "I already admitted I fucked up, how many different ways can I say it?"

"No," JC says, and he's closer again now. Pressing closer, pushing Justin toward the window. So close that his hand has to go to it for balance. The glass is warm under his hand, almost as warm as the places where JC touches his back. "You didn't fuck up."

Justin looks down, ten, fifteen, almost twenty feet to the ground below and no, no he didn't fuck up. He forgot the roses, but he didn't fuck up because there is white among the green. Great, spreading petals and the shine of the sun off the thick waxy leaves, so bright it's blinding and he blinks back tears.

"That's where your heart was," JC says, palming over the steady rhythm in Justin's chest, ghosting a kiss against his neck. "And it worked, right?"

Justin tries to speak and fails, just nods and presses his hand over JC's.

"So it's not love that fucks it up, not at all. It's a lack of effort. Because you're right. It is hard, and it can be miserable and it takes constant attention from everyone involved and you're an idiot. Because you've been working so, so fucking hard, haven't you?"

Justin nods again. "Yeah," he whispers.

"Let's try this again, ok?" JC says, pulling back and turning Justin around. "I'm going to tell the truth and you're going to tell the truth and if you need to panic later, you can. But not right now. Can we do this?"

"I..." Justin wants to argue, it's been almost a year since he made the promises so splendidly broken, he wants to try to keep them one more time. He doesn't. "Yes."

"You're madly, totally, completely head over heels in love with me, Justin. And it's cool. Because I love you too." JC wraps his hand around the back of Justin's neck, rubs his thumb in the crease behind his ear. Justin closes his eyes. "Your turn."

"Right." Justin clears his throat, forces his eyes open and looks at JC. "It's entirely possible that I've been full of shit about the friendly sex thing we have going on, and that I just might, maybe, kind of really be a little in love with you."

"See," JC grins, as blinding as the reflection off the Magnolia tree. "Was that really so hard, J?

"Um. Yes, actually" Justin says, stepping towards JC. "I'm probably going to have to take you up on that panicking thing, just a little more, maybe."

"That's fine," JC says, wrapping himself around Justin like ivy around an oak tree and Justin lets him stay, breath coasting soft against his skin like the breeze in his grandmother's garden. "I'll still be here."


End file.
